


Propriety

by tansy



Category: Fable (Video Games), Fable 3 (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 02:39:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3233156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tansy/pseuds/tansy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Halfway down an alley in Bowerstone Industrial is hardly the height of romance for a first-time encounter, but you make do when you have to. Rated for vulgarity, and a handjob.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Propriety

**Author's Note:**

> For Meg.

Four. There were four bins positioned in clear violation of health code in this alleyway alone, at Ben's rather vocal count. He swore as he stumbled into another one, sending the lid clattering to the cobbles.  
  
'Watch yourself Ben, you're going to wake the whole neighbourhood up,'  
  
'Bugger it, this place is a shithole anyway,' said Ben, with the look of a man who was concentrating very hard on where his feet were going. The king slapped at his arm.

'I'd like to see you do on a better job on such a dismal budget, Finn.'

They were picking their way back to civilisation after a long and difficult day of distributing justice. Ben had received a tip about a bar operating out of someone's back garden and, as monarch, the king was obligated to have a look into it. He could’ve sent a few of his guards to shut the operation down, but Ben had also heard that the proprietor had somehow acquired a few rare gins from the farther reaches of Samarkand. Obviously a matter for the king's personal attention.  
They hadn't had the manpower to shut the operation down (there was a lot of gin left). Perhaps another day. And here they were, on the right side of tipsy, in the pleasant space where you think you're funnier than you really are but you haven't tried to do a backflip yet. The back-alleys of the industrial district are practically a world wonder in themselves, a veritable and often disgusting exhibit of the shit people are desperate to get rid of. Look, an assortment of mysterious bones arranged in a manner fit for display in an exhibition! Over there, a fascinating breakthrough in mycology stretched from an old bedsheet to a dead cat! Nevertheless, the route dropped them both roughly equidistant to their residences so nobody could complain about having to walk on their own.

The king tripped over something he hoped wasn't a murder he'd have to look into later, and grabbed onto Ben's shirt for support. Ben snorted.

'Alright, mate, nothing like subtlety. I can catch you next time if you want.'

'Shut up, Ben.’

‘Yeah, you say that. Last time you were wankered you were all over me.’

The king thought briefly back to the last time he’d been wankered, which had been about three weeks ago. He didn’t remember doing anything inappropriate in Ben’s presence, but then again most of his memories of the night had been eclipsed by what many within Bowerstone were now referring to in hushed tones as ‘the soup incident’. Still, if he'd come onto Ben, someone would definitely have told him about it. If only to embarrass him terribly.

‘You should stop all that lying, you know.'

Ben tutted loudly and slung an arm around his shoulders.

‘Bleeding typical. Don’t blame you for wanting to forget, though, it was a bit embarrassing.’

He navigated them past an upturned chair.

‘You were all, like, oh, Ben you’re my best friend and you’re the only reason I’m on the throne and you’re also incredibly handsome.’

‘That’s bollocks. Why would I say that?’

‘Cos, er, you fancy me? I don’t blame you for that either.’

Usually, because for some reason this happened quite a bit, when Ben would pull out the ‘come on, you fancy me’ card the king would aim a bit of lightning in his direction and that would be that. Usually they were in company. Usually the king would be able to tell him he was wrong. But it was probably three in the morning, and the air was cold, and they were in an alley which really _was_ a bit of a shithole and the surrounding houses were busy with early-morning lovers and drunkards slurring shanties of waters beyond Albion. Ben's hand slipped from his shoulder.  
This was when fools in cheap am-dram productions said ‘sod it’ and went for it.

‘Sod it,’ said the king. He pushed himself forwards, eyes closed too soon maybe, found Ben's mouth with his own anyway as Ben's back hit the wall. He heard a muffled laugh, but felt a response; a definite movement of the jaw, a parting of the lips. Bastard was expecting it.

‘Hah,’ said Ben, drawing back, ‘I bloody knew it.’

Before the king had time to complain, Ben had kissed him again. He pushed his tongue insistently into the king’s mouth, was fumbling with his too-big shirt, untucking it messily, searching for bare skin. His hands were fucking freezing.

‘You,’ said the king, drawing backwards, ‘are not nearly as straight as you advertise.’

‘Do I advertise myself as such?,’ replied Ben, lips tracing the king’s.

'Okay, not in any exact words-'

Ben exhaled against him, hot air, half-snorted.

‘You are really bloody talkative. Knew there was a reason I hadn’t shagged you before.’

They kissed easily and persistently, the monarch learning his way around Ben’s motions; his enthusiastic pushes forward, the tensing of his fingers at the base of the king’s spine. Internally he was somewhat of a mess of forgetting where his hands should rest. Where they could rest. Too soon? Was anything, now, for them? Important. Not now. His hands decided on Ben's arse, fingers scraping across the bricks behind him. Ow.  
Ben's erection was pushing into his thigh and, despite himself, the king laughed.

‘Knew you fancied me,' he said, leaning back.

‘Shut up,’ said Ben. ‘I’m not even thinking about you.’

‘As if.’

He was bold tonight, giddy. Teased as though his own breeches weren’t tighter. Ben dug his nails in a little, coaxed him closer to bite his neck. Gods. Bringing a hand around, he palmed Ben's arousal, fingers tensing for purchase through fabric. _I want to-_ He hit a snag, and it only took about ten seconds for Ben to catch on. He detached his mouth from the king’s and had a look at what was going on. The monarch was having a bit of trouble with the frankly absurd belt fastener at Ben’s waist.  
Impractical.

'Shit,' he breathed into Ben's neck, 'I'm going to have to redesign these.'

To his credit, Ben waited a full thirty seconds, pressing kisses to his friend’s cheek and murmuring something about not wanting your trousers to fall down in the middle of battle, casual sexual encounters be damned, before he had to take over. It was probably for the best. He brushed the king’s fingers aside and undid his belt in one motion.

‘Er, thanks,'

‘You’re welcome.’

The king didn’t like people having to do things for him, and he got the impression that Ben was snickering a tad. That wasn’t on. He was the king of Albion. He nudged Ben's legs open with one of his knees. Ben was looking at him, eyebrow half-cocked, expectant. Smug, even. _Hideous. Fuck me. Hideous._ He slipped a hand down Ben's trousers and laughed when he winced at the temperature of his fingers.

And ah- well. There it was. He didn’t know the protocol for handling your best friend’s cock. Was there to be an exchange of compliments? A handshake? He cycled through a few friendly phrases in his head before he clocked that Ben was still waiting. Save the words, then. Ben hooked his fingers into the king's belt-loops and tugged him closer with that stupid look that made the girls at general goods trip over themselves to take his order. Shit. The Hero's knees could have given out. He took to Ben's shaft instead. Hand cramped painfully by Ben's trousers and an altogether unfamiliar angle, he was learning on the fly. Pre-come to lubricate the length, steady rhythm and a tight grip. He knew his inexperience was obvious. He'd practiced on a girl, a friend, once, and she'd been incredibly polite about his virgin hands and stammering mouth. He'd practiced on his own, often, rocked his hips backwards into silk sheets thinking of the stories the rowdy boys at the pub told in dim light. Ben grabbed him by the back of the neck. Eye contact. A lazy smile. Tighter grip.

'How am I doing?' the king breathed, swallowing a prick of genuine anxiety in his cockiness. Ben nodded, flattening himself against the wall, breath hitched in an approximation of something clever. Somewhere, someone kicked a can and the sound carried across the alley. What would people say, eh? The sounds coming out of Ben’s mouth- obscene- were enough to bite back any fear of discovery. Who cares what comes after this.

He'd never seen the captain like half the barmaids in Bowerstone had, hair falling into his eyes, lip caught between his teeth. He was surprised, really, at the ease of all this, that Ben bothered to kiss him, didn't tease him for his awkward hands.

'I hope,' Ben panted, 'you're not waxing lyrical about me in that head of yours.'

The king switched hands swiftly and shook the cramp out of the previously engaged one.

'Don't be ridiculous,' he said. Ben laughed, touched the king’s face lightly.

The Bowerstone clock struck three in the morning and nobody had come to see what the fuss was about. Briefly the king considered getting to his knees, before remembering the state of the floor. He drew back a little to watch his own ministrations and Ben's cock slick with pre-come. His breaths were becoming heavier, fingers at his back drumming a stronger beat. He was close.

'Come on, Captain,'

'Shit,' Ben breathed, head slamming painfully against the wall as he looked upwards to the frosted sky. His breath misted in the cold air and he swallowed his voice as condensation. Knees half-bent and threatening to buckle.

'Hey, I'm-'

He came riotously, and, incidentally, all over the king's shirt. Ben looked down, breaths laboured, and laughed in post-orgasm shakes, because he’d indelicately jizzed all over the king of Albion. The king made a little noise of disgust.

'Have you seriously-' the king murmured. He took stock of his clothing, of the cock softening in his hand, of Ben's poor attempt at stifling his giggles by chewing his lip.

'Oh, you utter-'

'It's not my fault you can't aim. I gave you ample warning.' He laughed again, and peeled himself from the wall.

'I don't count a millisecond as- look!' He did his best to look mortified.

'Sorry,' Ben made a poor show of patting at the king's shirt, 'let me make it up to you, yeah?'

Yeah. _Oh._ Oh, he could do with it, really, he wanted it, _really_ , but…

'Another time,' said the king. Ben raised an eyebrow.

'Are you sure?'

'Yeah. This isn't really the, er,-' he waved his arms about to illustrate.

'Ah right,' Ben nodded, 'the wrong _ambience_.'

More like the wrong time, actually. They’d been lucky as it was, and being discovered with his trousers down was possibly the least erotic scenario the king could ever hope to imagine. But yes, also, the setting was horrendous and he would prefer somewhere nicer. Gods.

Ben fastened his trousers deftly and gave him a little smile. Returning it made the king’s chest tight. Oh, did this make things difficult? Were things different? Would it be better or worse if they weren't? A back-alley handjob was hardly the height of romance, and the king was certain he'd mired himself in sentiment much more than Ben ever would. They parted at the mouth of the street, Ben giving the king’s shoulder a squeeze. And now he'd have to walk back to the castle and avoid the staff looking at his shirt, and take care of himself in his chambers.

But Ben had said _‘tomorrow’_ right before he left, and really that's all that mattered.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Amárach](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4233489) by [meggie272](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meggie272/pseuds/meggie272)




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